Chapter 19 New Game Plan #2
The smell of fresh paint fills Tara's kitchen as I push through the front door. Tara must be busy painting our renovated kitchen—new cabinets, appliances, floors, and an upgraded new vent hood with enough capacity and power for wok cooking—a skill I can’t wait to show off to Tara.
She's perched on a stepladder, rolling soft yellow paint across the wall that was bare when I left this morning.
Her brown hair is twisted up in a messy bun, secured with what looks suspiciously like a paintbrush, and there's a streak of yellow across her cheek that makes my chest tighten with something that feels too big for my ribcage.
This. This is what I chose over million-dollar contracts and magazine covers.
"Honey, I'm home," I call out, and she turns with a smile that could power the whole town.
"How'd it go?" she asks, climbing down from the ladder with the kind of grace that shouldn't be possible while holding a paint roller.
"Well, I'm officially retired from professional hockey." I cross the kitchen and wrap my arms around her waist, breathing in the scent of vanilla and paint fumes that somehow smells like home. "And possibly about to become a minor league coach and general manager."
Her eyebrows climb toward her hairline. "That was fast. Also, explain."
So I do. I tell her about the meeting, about Levi's proposal, about the Cedar Falls Chaos and building something from scratch. Her eyes get brighter with every word, and by the time I finish, she's practically vibrating with excitement.
"The Cedar Falls Chaos?" she repeats, laughing. "Oh, that's perfect. Absolutely perfect."
"We’re not fixed on the name. Could be the Cedar Falls Rookies," I laugh.
Watching her, I have to ask. “You're not disappointed? About me retiring, I mean. No more glamorous NHL girlfriend life."
She slips her paint-stained hands into mine, and the look in her blue eyes makes my knees weak.
"Cam Wilder, I fell in love with you when you were suffering from post-concussion syndrome and entering pie-eating contests. You think I care about your job title?"
"I might have been showing off a little with the pie thing," I admit.
Tara laughs, a sound that makes the new yellow paint on the walls seem brighter.
“Oh, I’m sure you were. A man has to defend his title.
” She steps closer, close enough that I can see the tiny flecks of gold in her blue eyes.
“I just want you to know something, Cam. I would have loved you if you were a plumber. Or a baker. Or the guy who restocks the vending machines.”
Her fingers find the front of my shirt, twisting the soft cotton. “I love you. Not the job. Not the fame. Not Dane-gerous Seoul. Just… you. The guy who gets a goofy grin when he talks about his mom’s cooking and who reads to stray cats at the shelter.”
My throat closes up. All my life, I’ve been the show. The performance. The guy who fills the room with noise so no one sees the cracks. But she doesn’t just see them. She runs her fingers over them like they’re the most beautiful part of me.
“I’m keeping the nickname, though,” I manage, my voice thick. “Sounds cool for a minor league hockey owner.”
“Then Cedar Falls Chaos certainly has a ring of truth to it, considering its co-founder. And Cam, you will always have a place in your fans’ hearts.”
“Hey, I’m a stabilizing presence,” I protest, pulling her flush against me. My hands settle on her hips, learning the perfect curve of them all over again.
“You’re a beautiful disaster,” she corrects, her voice dropping to a husky whisper. “And you’re my beautiful disaster.”
This is it. The life I walked away from feels like a black-and-white movie compared to this— her in my arms, in this kitchen, in this town that’s become home.
She pulls back just enough to meet my gaze, and the teasing light in her eyes is replaced by a fierce, brilliant clarity. It’s the look of a woman stepping into her own power, and it’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.
“And,” she says, her voice steady and clear. “I’m not just Tara Haynes anymore, either.” She takes a breath, and it feels like she’s inhaling a new future. “I’m Taralyn Delacroix. And I’m not running anymore.”
Her real name, no longer a secret or a burden, but as a declaration. A flag planted firmly in the ground of this life we’re building.
My heart thuds against my ribs, a heavy, steady beat. Taralyn Delacroix.
I lean in and kiss her, not with hunger, but with a reverence that feels like a vow. It’s a kiss that says I see all of you. I choose all of you.
Her lips part under mine, soft and sure, and she pours all of her relief, her fight, and her freedom into the kiss.
When I pull back, I trail my thumb over the paint smudge on her cheek. “I like that name,” I say, my voice rough. “Sounds like the woman who’s going to be the First Lady of the Cedar Falls Chaos.”
A laugh bubbles out of her. “Is that an official title?”
“We’ll make it one.” I grin. The weight of expectation, of fame, of a future I was supposed to want, is gone. All that’s left is this. Her. Us.
I slide my hands from her waist, up her back, until my palms cup her face. “I love you, Taralyn Delacroix.”
“I love you, Cam Wilder.”
And then there are no more words. I lift her in my arms, and she wraps her legs around my waist without hesitation.
I carry her to the brand-new quartz countertop, sitting her on the cool, smooth surface.
The paint roller she was using clatters to the floor, forgotten.
Her paint-stained hands are in my hair, pulling me closer, her nails scraping lightly against my scalp in a way that makes my entire body tighten.
“This countertop is new,” she breathes against my lips, a playful warning in her tone.
“Good,” I growl, moving between her thighs, my voice dominant. “We should break it in properly. Make a memory this house will never forget.”
She squirms, trying to close the distance between us, but I pin her hips with one firm grip, my callouses rough against her smooth skin.
“Stay,” I growl, my voice low and commanding. “You don’t move unless I tell you.”
Her lips part, defiance flashing in her eyes like a spark ready to ignite a wildfire. But she nods, that single flicker of submission making my length throb hard against the thin barrier of her shorts. I can feel her heat, her need, radiating through the fabric, beckoning me.
I tug her shirt over her head, the soft cotton brushing against her skin before it's discarded onto the floor. Her lace bra is a pathetic barrier—her breasts spill against the cups, begging for my touch, my taste. I snap the clasp, and the sight of her bare curves makes my mouth water. Since the moment I got home, I’ve noticed her hard nipples through her shirt, and now, I stare at them, my heart pounding in my chest like a kick drum.
“Perfect,” I rasp, my voice barely recognizable. I drag my thumb over one tight peak, her nipple hardening under my touch until she gasps, a soft, desperate sound that sends a bolt of lust straight to my groin. “So damn perfect, Taralyn. Mine.”
I pinch and pull it the way she likes, and she arches into my hand, desperate for more, and I reward her by leaning down, taking her nipple into my mouth. I suck, I bite, just enough to hear her moan break free from her lips. Her fingers twist in my hair, tugging, urging me on.
“Cam—” she moans, my name a plea on her lips.
I lift my head, my mouth wet from her skin, and smirk. “Don’t tell me what to do. You’ll come when I decide.”
Her eyes darken, her mouth parts. She likes it when I take control.
I watch her as I shove her shorts down, tearing her panties with one impatient pull. The sound of fabric ripping is loud in the quiet kitchen, a symphony of my desperation. She shudders, her breath hitching in her throat.
“Spread your thighs,” I command, my voice hoarse with need.
She obeys instantly, her thighs reveals she’s already wet and dripping for me. I lean in to smell her deeply, and her embarrassment turns to into wonton heat.
I slide two fingers through her wetness, a groan rumbling in my chest at the feel of her, so ready, so eager.
Her arousal coats my skin, thick and warm, the scent of her mingling with the sharp tang of fresh paint in the air.
I press deeper, parting her folds with deliberate slowness, savoring the way she trembles beneath my touch.
“Look at you,” I murmur, my voice vibrating. I drag the wetness up to circle her clit, slow and relentless, like a potter shaping clay. “Messy on my counter. Paint all over your cheek. You’re still the sexiest damn thing I’ve ever seen.”
Her hips jerk, chasing the pressure, but I press my palm against her stomach, holding her down.
I thrust two fingers inside her again, curling until I feel the sweet spot, until her cry bounces off the tile backsplash, a melody of her desperation.
The tight, wet clasp of her inner muscles around my fingers makes my cock ache.
I add a third finger, stretching her slowly, feeling the flutter of her walls as she clenches around me.
Her breath comes in ragged gasps, her body arching despite my restraint.
“That’s it. Ride my hand. Show me how badly you need me.”
She’s panting, her nails clawing at the countertop for leverage, and the sight of her unraveling makes me feral. I drop to my knees, the cold tile biting into my skin, but I barely feel it.
I'm consumed by her, by the need to taste her, to devour her. I shove her legs wider, hooking her knees over my shoulders, spreading her open until she’s utterly exposed.
The heat radiating from her core is dizzying—musky and sweet, a scent that bypasses thought and goes straight to my primal brain.
My tongue traces a slow, torturous path from the base of her entrance up to her swollen clit.
She whimpers, a high, broken sound that tightens my balls.